Freedom (TM)

by Daniel Suarez

  Price followed, but then glanced back at the man, gesturing at the guy’s invisible data. “Go easy with that Viagra prescription, Joe. It’s potent stuff.”

  The man stopped cold as his girlfriend cast a puzzled look toward him. “Joe, do you know those guys?”

  Chapter 6: // Waymeet

  Darknet Top-rated Posts +95,383↑

  At issue is not whether the global economy will pass away. It is passing away. Rising populations and debt combined with depletion of freshwater sources and fossil fuel make the status quo untenable. The only question is whether civil society will survive the transition. Can we use the darknet to preserve representative democracy, or will we seek protection from brutal strong-men as the old order begins to fail?

  Catherine_7***** / 3,393 17th-level Journalist

  “That’ll be fourteen thirty-nine.” Pete Sebeck frowned. “That’s not right.”

  He faced a lanky teenager in an ill-fitting franchise smock—one of the innumerable conscripts of the retail world. The kid glanced down at his computer screen and shrugged. “That’s what it is, sir. Fourteen thirty-nine.”

  Sebeck leaned in against the counter. “Kid, I got a number two combo, and a number nine combo. What does that add up to?”

  The cashier looked down at his computer screen. “Fourteen thirty-nine.”

  “Stop looking at the screen and just think for a second.” He pointed at the wall-mounted menu. “How could a number two combo, at three ninety-nine, and a number nine combo, at five ninety-nine, add up to fourteen thirty-nine?”

  “Sir, I’m just telling you what it is. If you don’t want them both—”

  “Of course I want them both, but you’re not getting rid of me until you do the math.”

  “I’m not trying to get rid of you, I’m just telling you that it’s fourteen thirty-nine.” He swiveled the screen so Sebeck could see it.

  “It doesn’t matter what—Look, you’ve hit the wrong key or something.”

  “You’re forgetting sales tax, sir.”

  “No, I’m not forgetting sales tax. It shows sales tax there.” He pointed. “Listen, I want you to use your own mind for a second and think about this. Forget the machine.”

  “But—”

  “Three ninety-nine plus five ninety-nine is what?”

  The kid started looking at the screen again.

  “Listen to me! Don’t look at the screen. This is easy. Just round it up to four bucks plus six bucks—that’s ten bucks—then take away two pennies—that’s nine ninety-eight. Right?”

  “You’re forgetting sales tax.”

  “Kid, what’s five percent sales tax on ten bucks?”

  “Sir—”

  “Do it for me.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Do it! Just do it, goddamnit!” His shout echoed in the tiled restaurant.

  People in the restaurant suddenly stopped talking and started watching what seemed to be an altercation.

  “What is five percent sales tax on ten bucks?”

  The kid started tapping at the machine. “I’ll need a manager to clear this.”

  “Kid, do you really want machines doing all your thinking for you? Do you really want that?”

  A balding assistant manager with a muscular frame emerged from the kitchen door. His name tag read “Howard.” “Is there a problem here?”

  “Yeah, Howard, the kid has the price wrong, and I’m trying to get him to do the math.”

  “And what did you order?”

  “I ordered a number two and a number nine.”

  The manager looked at the screen. “Okay, that’s fourteen thirty-nine.”

  Howard was lucky Sebeck no longer carried a Taser.

  Sebeck returned to the car with a carryout bag and two drinks. Laney Price was still refueling at the sprawling interstate travel center. There were at least twenty pump islands around them, brightly lit. Traffic hissed by on the nearby highway.

  Price was using a squeegee to clean bugs off the windshield of the Chrysler 300 the Daemon had assigned them the day before. He seemed to notice the look on Sebeck’s face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Humanity is doomed, that’s what’s wrong.”

  “Oh.” Price kept cleaning the windshield.

  Sebeck tossed the food in the car and took over the refueling. “That was something Sobol knew, wasn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “That people will do whatever a computer screen tells them. I swear to god, you could run the next Holocaust from a fucking fast-food register.” He pantomimed aiming a pistol. “It says I should kill you now.”

  “I see we’ve had another unsatisfactory consumer experience.”

  “There are times when I miss the badge, Laney. I swear I miss it.”

  “Why, so you can intimidate the shit out of teen slackers? Besides, what you’ve got now is something better—a quest icon. You’re like a knight of the realm now.”

  “Just get in the car.”

  Sebeck almost missed the turnoff. They were heading west on Interstate 40 about an hour outside of Albuquerque when his new Thread abruptly veered onto an exit ramp marked INDIAN SERVICE ROUTE 22. Sebeck was in the middle of taking a sip of bottled water when the turn came up on him, and he had to swerve one-handed from the fast lane onto the exit ramp, cutting across solid white lines just before an abutment.

  He glanced over at the sleeping form of Laney Price, who stirred a bit but then settled back to sleep. Sebeck followed the glowing blue line superimposed on reality over a bridge that crossed the highway to arrive at a travel center where trucks and cars were clustered around gas stations, convenience stores, and ever-present fast-food outlets.

  There in the middle of a parking lot his new Thread ended in a swirling aura of blue light, above a live human being this time—a woman standing next to a white passenger van. The van was parked in front of a Conoco convenience store.

  It was not exactly the destination he’d envisioned—not that he had any clear idea what to expect. Sebeck parked the Chrysler facing forward in a row of cars across from the woman and peered through the freshly bug-spattered windshield at her.

  She was a trim American Indian woman in her fifties with long gray hair braided into a plait. She wore jeans, cowboy boots, and a tan button-down shirt with some sort of logo on the breast pocket. She also wore slim, stylish HUD glasses, through which she was gazing directly at Sebeck. She looked like a Santa Fe art gallery owner. Her D-Space call-out marked her as Riley—a fourteenth-level Shaman. Riley’s reputation score was five stars out of five on a base factor of nine hundred three—which, if Sebeck had understood Price’s ramblings over the weeks, meant that she had an average review by nine hundred-plus darknet operatives who’d interacted with her of five stars out of five. She was apparently highly regarded—about what Sebeck didn’t know.

  He turned off the engine and glanced over at the sleeping form of Price in the passenger seat. Sebeck pulled the keys from the ignition and stealthily opened the driver’s door. He didn’t feel like having his Daemon-assigned minder along for this conversation, so he placed the keys on the seat and quietly closed the car door behind him, checking that Price was asleep.

  Sebeck then walked across the parking lot toward Riley, who regarded him with some curiosity, since he was leaving his companion behind. It was fairly cloudy and rather cool. Sebeck closed his jacket as he approached Riley. Fellow travelers came and went around them.

  He took note of the passenger van she stood alongside. It was new and bore a logo for “Enchanted Mesa Spa & Resort”—the same logo printed on her shirt pocket.

  When he reached her, the last of the Thread disappeared and a chime sounded—leaving only the soft blue light of a D-Space aura slowly swirling above her head.

  Sebeck was unsure how to feel. He spoke without emotion. “I’m supposed to be looking for the Cloud Gate. Is there something you can tell me?”

  She extended her hand. “Why don’t we start wi
th hello?”

  Sebeck took a deep breath and shook her hand briefly. “Hello. You’re Riley.”

  “Shaman of the Two-Rivers faction. And you are the Unnamed One.”

  “Yeah, that just about describes it. I hope you have some answers for me.”

  “What sort of answers?”

  “Like how I can complete my quest? How do I justify the freedom of humanity to the Daemon?”

  She frowned. “That’s not visible to me.”

  He rubbed his eyes in frustration. “Why do I have to wander all over hell’s half acre to complete this damned quest?”

  “It’s the hero’s journey.”

  He narrowed his eyes at her.

  “Don’t forget: Sobol was an online game designer. In the archetype, a hero must wander lost in the wilderness to find the knowledge necessary for his or her quest. Perhaps that’s what’s happening to you.”

  “And I’m supposed to be the hero.”

  “It’s your life. You should be the hero of it. If it’s any consolation, I’m the hero of mine, too.”

  “Riley, why did the Thread lead me to you?”

  “Why me exactly? I don’t know. I suspect it has to do with my skill set and my proximity to you when some system threshold was reached.”

  Sebeck nodded to himself. “Yesterday I spoke with Matthew Sobol. He gave me this Thread after our meeting.”

  “And yesterday an avatar appeared to me on a deep layer. She was like an angel. A beautiful woman with copper hair and alabaster skin—bathed in light. She said you would come.”

  Sebeck ran his hands over his bald head. He thought of Cheryl Lanthrop, the woman who had betrayed him. Copper hair and fair skin. She’d worked for Sobol, and had paid for that with her life. “This is madness.”

  “The avatar told me you were on a quest from Mad Emperor, and that you needed to grok the shamanic interface.”

  He was lost.

  She nodded in understanding. “I’ll put it in layman’s terms: you need to fully learn the darknet and all its powers in order to have any hope of succeeding on your quest.”

  “Powers.”

  “Data magic, far-sight.”

  “And you’re a shaman?”

  She smiled. “I know what you’re thinking. There’s no such thing as magic, and restless spirits are wives’ tales. However—”

  Sebeck held up his hand. “Yeah. I stand corrected.”

  “Good. I chose my darknet profession, and it is shaman. It governs my skill tree and level advancement. Is that more clear?”

  He nodded.

  “I see that you’re a first-level Fighter. Which makes it all the more puzzling that you’ve been geased by Mad Emperor to complete this quest.”

  “Geased? What’s ‘geased’ mean?”

  “It’s ancient Gaelic. It means an enchantment that compels you to complete a task. It’s an incredibly powerful spell—far, far above my level.”

  “Can I break free of it?”

  “Not if you accepted the quest. The only one who can cancel it is the one who gave it to you: Mad Emperor.”

  Sebeck recalled sitting in the office of a funeral home, talking with an interactive three-dimensional recording of Sobol. The avatar had asked him: do you accept the task of finding justification for the freedom of humanity? Yes or no? It was an out-of-control voice recognition monster, and Sebeck felt compelled to accept, if only to buy time. If only to protect his family.

  “I had no choice.”

  “Maybe. But be warned: you must choose your words carefully on the darknet. Words have power in this new age. They are not just sounds. Where ancient people believed in gods and devils that listened to their pleas and curses—in this age immortal entities hear us. Call them bots or spirits; there is no functional difference now. They surround us and through them word-forms become an unlock code that can trigger a blessing or a curse. Mankind created systems whose inter-reactions we could not fully understand, and the spirits we gathered have escaped from them into the land where they walk the earth—or the GPS grid, whichever you prefer. The spirit world overlaps the real one now, and our lives will never be the same.”

  Sebeck didn’t know what to say. A couple of years ago he would have called her crazy, but she was right—spirits or bots, it was just semantics. “And what happens if I refuse to proceed?”

  “If you stray from your path, the Daemon will compel you to return to it. Of more concern to me is how you could possibly complete your quest while remaining first level.”

  “I can’t go up levels?”

  “The darknet is arranged like Sobol’s game world. You can only go up levels by completing tasks—or quests. However, the Geas spell prevents you from taking on any other quests until you complete this one. You are stuck at first level until you achieve your goal. And you have quite a goal.” She didn’t appear too optimistic. Riley checked her watch. “We need to get going. You should wake up your factor.”

  “Factor?”

  She pointed at Price sleeping in the car. “Chunky Monkey.”

  “Where are we heading?”

  She patted the “Enchanted Mesa Spa & Resort” logo on the side of the van. “You’re with us until you certify with the shamanic interface.”

  He glanced back at the car and shrugged. “I’m good to go.” “You’re leaving your factor behind?”

  “He’s a spy planted by Sobol.”

  She reached up to manipulate unseen objects in a way that Sebeck had seen Price do many times. A few moments later she shook her head. “I don’t see that he’s reporting to anyone. Although, he has been tasked by Mad Emperor to handle the logistics of your quest. Unlike you, he can quit this task at any time and be replaced.” She lowered her hands. “But neither has he given you high marks for cooperation.”

  “Leave him.”

  She just looked at Sebeck. “And your things?”

  “Replaceable. A few changes of clothing, toiletries.”

  “If that’s what you want.”

  Riley drove the passenger van south into scrublands, past creosote bushes and the occasional piñon tree. They were headed toward distant mesas of tan rock, mottled by the shadows of clouds. Sebeck was glad that the Thread no longer loomed in front of him. His view was unobstructed for the first time in a long while. The only reminder of his quest was when he looked at Riley and saw the subtle aura glowing above her call-out—she was his current goal.

  He focused his attention out the window. A surprising amount of grass grew in the lowlands this time of year. It was beautiful.

  Sebeck sensed Riley studying him, but for several minutes they drove in silence. She finally spoke. “I know who you are.”

  Sebeck didn’t respond.

  “You’re that detective—Sergeant Peter Sebeck—the one who was framed for the Daemon hoax.”

  Sebeck nodded.

  “They put you to death.”

  Sebeck nodded somberly again. “If you believe the news.”

  “You’ve lost a great deal. Your career. Your reputation. I don’t imagine you’re here voluntarily.”

  “No.”

  “Did you know Matthew Sobol? Is that why he gave you this quest?”

  “Sobol was my primary suspect in a murder case. From the point my name entered the news, I was in the Daemon’s sights. Sobol effectively framed me with a computer program.”

  “How did you survive your execution?”

  Sebeck shrugged. “Ask Price. He was the one who revived me at the funeral home.”

  “You mean Chunky Monkey, the operative back at the travel center?”

  Sebeck just gave her a look. “His name is Laney Price. Another misfit the Daemon found somewhere.” He cast a glance at Riley. “No offense.”

  “None taken.”

  Sebeck decided to change the subject. “Is this your tribe’s land?”

  “No. Right now we’re passing through the Acoma reservation. I’m a Laguna Indian. We’ll reach Laguna land in about fifteen minutes.
The Navajo nation is north of us—much larger—and the Zunis are to the west.”

  Sebeck gazed out the window at the mesas and light green grass bowing in a breeze. “This is beautiful country. I always thought of New Mexico as just sand and rocks.”

  “The Spanish word for lake is laguna. That’s how our tribe got its name. Access to water is what attracted Europeans.” She pointed into the distance and a line of tan rock on the horizon. “The Acoma pueblo up on that mesa was first settled in eleven hundred A.D. It’s the oldest continuously occupied community in North America.”

  Sebeck was genuinely surprised. “So they didn’t fall along with the Anasazi civilization?”

  “You have an interest in Anasazi history?”

  “It came up recently in conversation.”

  “Well, Acoma rose partly from the collapse of Chacoan society. Some of the survivors resettled here.

  “Acoma was attacked in the late fifteen-hundreds by the Spanish. They used cannons and attack dogs to force their way up the stone stairway onto the mesa. They killed all but two hundred and fifty of the twenty-five hundred inhabitants and cut one foot off every male survivor. The children were given to Catholic missionaries, but most of them wound up being sold into slavery. The Spanish then used the pueblo as a base to conquer the rest of the region.”

  Sebeck didn’t know what to say.

  “That was two centuries before the British colonies in the East declared their independence. We’ve been here a long time.”

  “And now you’re a darknet faction leader. Are you some sort of militant?”

  She laughed. “You mean, a violent fringe group? No, Sergeant. We’re builders.” A look came over her, and she tapped again at invisible objects on a hidden layer of D-Space. “In fact, you’ll see some of our work on the way.” She was about to say something, but then apparently thought better of it.

  “What?”

  “If you’re wondering whether I bear a grudge against the Spanish—or the U.S. government for that matter—I don’t. Nursing anger against people long dead is a waste of one’s life. Today if someone wrongs us, we do what anyone else does: we send our lawyers after them.” Riley fixed her gaze on Sebeck. “The Laguna value education highly. It is our rod and staff, as my father used to say.”